


Not

by SandrC



Series: Not Another Fanfiction Collection [13]
Category: Not Another D&D Podcast
Genre: Canon Temporary Character Death, Dehumanization, Jossed, Uncanny Valley, Vampire!Hardwon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-06-29 11:50:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19829599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandrC/pseuds/SandrC
Summary: The thing standing there saying it is Hardwon Surefoot, is not Hardwon Surefoot.It is not.





	Not

**Author's Note:**

> I👏AM👏A👏MONSTER👏AND👏THIS👏IS👏WHY👏Y'ALL👏LOVE👏ME!!!
> 
> Depersonalization? Identity issues? Character fucking study? It's my goddamn jam y'all.
> 
> Been listening to a lot of the Magnus Archives and the slow dehumanization of Jon as he Becomes the Archivist kinda hit me in them trans feels as well as my good sweet spot of "painpainpainpain" and I love it. So now you're gonna love it too.
> 
> Um, warnings for use of "it" for a character who is not an "it" as well as the sudden realization and fear of not being human any more.
> 
> I love my thicc dummy and I want him to feel better. In the interim: I will hurt him.
> 
> (As a note: I finished this exactly one hour after listening to episode 69 and I am hurting. DND is a good goddamn game, y'all. I'm in some emotional distress about Hardwon. So now you know the truth. That's why that last bit reads different. Because I am compromised and also have listened to episode 69. I'm in pain and it feels good, I s'pose. Enjoy.)

The monks of the Watchtower watch the thing that pretends to be Hardwon Surefoot enter their domain with no amount of trepidation.

Their Watcher, too young and too trusting for his own good, sees Moonshine Cybin and Beverly Toegold V and Balnor and determines that the _thing_ with them is Hardwon. When they ask, he invites the thing in and it smiles, closed-lipped, and pretends to be relieved. It cannot _be_ relieved. It _is not_ Hardwon Surefoot. It has _no such feelings._

Their Watcher greets the _thing_ that pretends to be Hardwon Surefoot and its traveling companions with wild abandon and open arms. He lets it know that it is welcome _any time_. The monks of the Watchtower do not tell their Watcher that he is inviting disaster. That the thing wearing the face of Hardwon Surefoot now has free reign in their home for _the rest of forever_. That their home is no longer _safe_.

The monks of the Watchtower never speak but they _watch_. That is their duty and they watch as this monster is invited in, treated like a treasured guest, and then bid a fond farewell. They watch the retreating forms of people who don't know what they're traveling with. They watch and know that, long after they have passed and long after they have moved their sanctuary, _this thing_ will come back and demand its pound of flesh.

They do not weep for the false sorrow that paints its face in streaks of grey. They do not feel empathy for the mask it wears. They just watch as it leaves and wait for the day it comes back, façade _long forgotten_. They wait for it to forget it's supposed to be pretending. Not if, but _when_.

Because it is _not_ Hardwon Surefoot.

No matter _how_ much it says to the contrary.

* * *

The High Elves of Gladeholm knew they were right to refuse entry to the Cricks sitting at their door. Not _just_ because the damn things are uncouth, muddy, and rowdy monster-loving imitations of what an elf should be, but also because of the _thing_ that they greet like a friend.

It calls itself "Hardwon Surefoot". _They_ call it Hardwon as well, with a fondness that makes the University's stomach sour.

It _might_ have been this so-called Hardwon Surefoot _once_ , though it certainly isn't _now_.

The Cricks are blind to the predator that stalks them, stands beside their many spawn, and sows distrust among their people. They don't see its gaze linger on necks and veins and supple flesh. They don't see it grip its arms until it would have once drawn blood—its _lack of_ being the only thing that prevents its sleeves from turning a dark rust—as it marks its meals.

They welcome it into their group, a wolf pretending to herd among sheep with sharp horns and burr-filled fleece, thinking themselves safe. _They're fools_. The High Elves will _not_ make that mistake. _It_ is not welcome among them and, so long as _they_ associate with this _thing_ calling itself _Hardwon Surefoot_ , they _definitely_ aren't welcome in their walls.

They have _so little_ to offer anyway. No amount of wealth would buy passage for a pest you could never truly be rid of.

So the High Elves watch as the Crick rally and call and holler about "injustice" and "kin" and "home". But if they and their muddied, sullied bloodline want to play house with a monster, then they can do it away from the ones who matter.

You can't revoke an invitation after it's given. Not to something like _that_.

So they won't _ever_ get one. _It_ won't either.

* * *

Egwene Kindleaf has appointed herself the protector of Hill Holm. Erlin —dorky, stupid, trying his damndest—isn't in _any_ position to protect anyone and, while Nana was a formidable woman once, she couldn't kill an owlbear at a hundred paces. That's _her_ job. Her burden. Her _choice_.

Egwene Kindleaf, protector of Hill Holm, knows a _monster_ when she sees it.

She should've kept it out of Hill Holm but—

It's hard to argue with Martha Toegold. Not when she gets going. And if _her_ boy, her _baby_ , back from a battle that was one piece of a war _no one_ was _really_ gonna win, says that _this thing is Hardwon_ , his _friend_ , then Egwene _has_ to concede.

It doesn't mean she has to trust it like _he_ does.

 _Sure_ , the thing looks like Hardwon. Little more pale, little more thin, little more grey than Hardwon last she saw him, but it's similar enough to be easily mistaken for him at a distance. And sure, the thing _sounds_ like Hardwon but—

—magic can make a _Seeming_ and any actor _worth their spit_ can mimic some dumb jock from under a mountain. It's not hard.

 _She_ doesn't trust it and _that's_ what matters.

Her brother wraps Bev up in a wild hug and it's so warm and so happy but she can't appreciate it because she has to keep an eye on the thing that's with them. She can't let her guard down.

She has _so much_ to lose. This thing doesn't.

So she holds her action. She waits. She watches. She's a good hunter anyway. Half of the hunt is stalking and Egwene is a _snake_. She was _made_ for stalking.

In the late night, long after the thing and its companions have headed to bed, she watches them through a window. Enclosed in a large coffin—big enough for several people—are the monster, her brother's boyfriend, the Crick, and their strange halfling dude. They're sleeping soundly, wrapped around each other like it's a bed instead of a coffin. They don't seem to know the danger they're in.

Egwene waits.

Four hours later, the monster opens its eyes and lays there, wrapped between Moonshine and Beverly. It doesn't move, even when Moonshine shifts around and jams her foot in its face. It doesn't move, even though Bev is loudly snoring and drooling a puddle in there. It doesn't move, even though the older halfling—whose name she never got, nor _cared_ to get—fitfully keeps turning about and muttering. It just lays, rigid, and _waits_ , its red eyes trained on the ceiling above it.

Then it speaks, in a voice so soft that she starts and almost falls off her perch.

"Do you think I'm _blind_?" It waits like it wants her to respond but she doesn't. "You smell like smoke, kid. If you wanted to spy, just sit up-wind."

 _Fuck_. She bites on a curse, balancing in the tree she's using to see in the room, and draws her bow.

"Will it make you feel better? You and the others? The elves at Gladeholm, the monks at the Watchtower, even the fucking Crick Elves. Will killing me make you _feel better_? It won't stick, I'll say _that_ much." The monster laughs, reflexive. Coffin and red eyes means vampire and that means that it doesn't breathe. It doesn't need air. It laughs as a way to _draw sympathy_.

Still...this monster disguised as Hardwon continues, unbidden.

"Give me a few days and I'll be back up in my coffin in no time. Pointless waste of arrows." It smiles, closed-lips, and continues. "But I'm not _fucking stupid_ so I'll give you this much: you _really_ want me dead, Egwene? Kill me in the sun or in water. Killing me _now_ , in the dark, in _my element_? An inconvenience at _worst_." Its eyes track to where she is looking in, pupils wide disks, and it bares its fangs in a grimace. "So if you wanna do it, do it _right_. Do it right and do it _fast_."

It falls silent again. All Egwene can hear is the sound of Hill Holm insects screaming for attention and her own heartbeat in her ears. She swallows but doesn't lower her weapon.

It's a monster. It needs to _die_.

It _needs_ to.

"I wonder what would make you do it? Draining someone? Hurting _your family_? Attacking _you_? What would make you hate me more than I hate myself? Though—" the monster chuckles, dry, and continues, "—I don't think I could bring myself to hurt anyone here. Not _on purpose_ , anyway. If I got misted? I dunno. _Might_ be far enough gone to make that mistake and then, _fuck yeah_. Gank me."

It takes a beat before continuing.

"I keep asking them to do it. She _said_ she'd use Reincarnate and that's _fine_. I'll _take_ that chance. But they keep finding excuses _not_ to."

It mimics Moonshine first, sneering, frustrated. "Hardwon, you _just_ met your ma. Ain't no reason to ruin that. _It can wait_."

Then it mimics Beverly. It's softer this time, face more wistful than angry. "I _just don't think I can!_ You're my _friend_ , Hardwon, and I don't think I could really bring myself to _kill_ you!"

It lets out a shuddering gasp, like it's trying to hold back tears. It can't cry though, not _for real_. It's a monster. But it pretends pretty well.

"I just want to _stop_. I want to stop looking at people and seeing _food_ or _pathetic_ or _worthless_. I want to stop fighting the urge to rip into everything I see just because I can. I want to see the sun, swim in a river, _fuck_ , just fucking sleep during the night again. I'm _so tired_ Egwene and if you're willing, I'd fucking pin my feet to the ground and let the sun take me. Because I'm _tired_ of being a monster. I'm tired of people _looking_ at me like _you_ did. _I'm just tired._ "

It sounds desperate and, for a moment, she wonders if this is sincere. But it's a _vampire_. They're charismatic and liars and she's certain that if she goes anywhere alone with it, she wouldn't be coming back.

She looses a single arrow into its shoulder. It lets out a wet-sounding laugh but doesn't flinch. " _Okay_ then. Guess I'll have to wait until someone takes me up on it. Thanks for _listening_ though." As she starts to climb down the tree to head to bed, certain it won't move for fear of waking the others, it calls out to her one last time and what it says makes the truth as clear as the night sky.

" _Sleep well_ , Egwene. Tell Nana and Erlan I said _hi_."

She does sleep that night. Not _well_ , mind you, but she sleeps.

Because there _is_ a monster in Hill Holm.

And it is not Hardwon Surefoot.

**Author's Note:**

> Brian Murphy turn on your location.


End file.
